The Haradrim and other stories
by JoJo4
Summary: An execution brings to light the troubles of Eowyn's marriage. (This is to be an anthology of unrelated short stories.)
1. The Haradrim 1

Disclaimer: not mine. not making money off of it.

Author's notes: Because my short stories get maybe 5 reviews tops, I'm going to group all my short E/F drabbles into one big anthology.

This first story is based on a challenge issued on the boards at Challenge: (Posted by SEAmaiden)

"I'm giving you a title and the story is yours to write. The title is: The Haradrim.

What you have to do:

1. Eowyn & Faramir is in the story alright, don't worry. MAKE SURE THE HARADRIM IS A SUPPORTING CHARACTER TO E/F.

2. How E/F met the Haradrim, what's the plot, how you want to characterise the Haradrim, let your imagination soar... but on 1 condition - DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT MAKE THE HARADRIM A VILLIAN! If the Haradrim is made a victim in some scheming ploy, or a misunderstood/prejudiced individual, go ahead. Do give the Haradrim some sense of good in him/her.

3. Wordcount? Quite flexible really. You can either write in:

a) A single story (1 chapter only) not more than 2,500 words.

b) A story in chapters. Wordcount here is unlimited. Given the dateline's is April's end, I encourage you not to write more than 5 chapters. If you think you can make more chapters + be on time for the closing dateline still, by all means fire away the ink

The Haradrim

by Jenni

Primus

Crows.

The ravenous birds had anticipated the first arrivals into the square, and sat perching on the shoulders of the great bronze statue of Anarion like caricature epaulets.

Even when the square became so crowded that people had to push and shove from the edge in order to find a good view of the scaffold, the birds did not depart. They were waiting for something, hovering over the square like storm clouds on the horizon.

No one paid them any attention except for one woman, who was watching from afar on one of the high parapets of the city's second circle. She was clothed in embroidered white silk, and round her she had wrapped a sable mantle decorated with white blossoms so finely made that there could be little doubt of her rank. If the richness of her attire was not telling enough, an ignorant bystander could also have guessed it from the presence of the two men flanking her on each side, each of which boasted the field-less crest of the White Company.

Her hand clutched at the stonework before her in order to support her trembling legs as she watched the spectacle below. To her, the crows were the only figures on which she could focus. The crowd and their ruckus drifted in and out of her notice. Occasionally she could hear the enthusiastic shout of some child as he darted past her and onward to the lower level of the city. As the minutes wore on, the late-comers began to surround her, who were unable to find a place in the lower level and wished to look on from the second. Her guards and the people's awe of her kept them at bay for a while, but as the moment grew closer they jostled her and pinched her against the wall.

It was difficult to breathe in the mad press of people. In fact, it was difficult to breathe at all.

Her eyes fell upon the statue, its majesty ruined by the ugly birds resting upon it, and she kept them fixed on one spot and one spot alone. She wouldn't look down at the scaffold until the very end.

They had bound the prisoner with heavy ropes and tied him, kneeling, to the cart with his hands clutched together at the railing before him as if he were in prayer. Sticks and bramble lined the cart's bottom, scratching and raking his knees with every bump in the road. As the tumbrel lumbered through the tiers of the city, the steep decline often forced him to fall forward onto his hands because he no longer had the strength to support himself; but he always tried to sit erect.

They brought him from the fourth circle of the city where the new jail was located.

Often members of the crowd hurled rotten oranges at him, an import from Harad. Some remained in the cart so both man and stench descended to the lower level together. The insult was obvious, and the prisoner felt it more cruelly than he did the spittle aimed his way. Even the little bits of dried offal he did not mind so much as those cursed Haradic oranges.

Not once did he allow the fear to creep into his eyes. Defiance alone was on display for these people. It blazed from his eyes, silver as the Western sea, like fired steel upon the anvil where overhead the blacksmith's hammer was poised.

He hated all of them.

A youth, egged on by his friends, sprinted up to the tumbrel as it wheeled past and spat upon his face. Without blinking, he repaid the injury and was punished by the mob with a barrage of missiles: oranges, pebbles, rocks, cabbages, sticks. A stone struck him hard on the forehead, and he emitted a dull groan before slumping forward over his bound hands. He bit into the ropes with his teeth in an attempt to steady himself as his world began to disappear into fog. He would not meet death hunched over like a crippled man, but with all the dignity and honor he ought to have received in his miserable life. Only this kept him conscious.

When he managed to right himself at last, the cart was entering the second circle of the city. Mounted guards had arrived to stay the fury of the mob, and they pushed the rabble backwards with their ceremonial spears. The task was difficult considering how thick the crowd had packed itself. The cart progressed slowly with occasional stops and starts.

Only one place lacked the density of the remainder of the street, and it attracted the prisoner's attention; for over the heads of the common folk jeering at him, he could see the dancing, snowy horsetail crests of his former comrades from the White company.

He stretched up as far as he could manage, hoping to catch a glimpse of their faces. Had they come to see him in his last hour or were they on duty? Could they be guarding someone? Could that someone be the White Lady?


	2. The Haradrim 2

Disclaimer: not mine

Secundus

"Ada!"

Éowyn stood outside Faramir's office, still in her traveling cloak, as she waited for the right moment to interrupt her son's reunion with his father. She could hear the sound of scrolls being rolled up and books being shut. There came an exclamation of glee, indicating that her husband had hoisted Elboron into the air and was twirling him about. It pleased her to hear their mirth, and she did not wish to intrude.

In fact, she was tempted to go to her chambers without seeing Faramir. The idea nagged at the back her mind, causing her to feel guilty. She was a bad wife. Only a bad wife wouldn't want to see her husband after a five-month absence.

Only a bad wife would uproot her son and leave for five months without an explanation.

But only a bad husband wouldn't have noticed there had been something wrong when she left.

_Stop it_, she ordered herself. _He loves you._

But she didn't want to go into the room, and see the smile on his face fade and become something less, something borne out of habit. Whenever she entered the room anymore, Faramir always looked at her that way. As if he was struggling not to ask, "What now?"

She didn't understand why he had become so distant, and she hardly knew when it had started. All she knew was that he was never in Ithilien longer than a week. He came and went, like the passing of a summer breeze in an otherwise stifling existence. She had stopped asking him to stay at her side long ago.

He was constantly in the South, rebuilding Minath Ithil or in the city attending to matters of state. But here, in the seat of his realm, in his own household, he was a stranger. And she didn't understand why he wouldn't take her with him. She didn't understand why he shut himself in his office for hours on end, without sending her a single note or an excuse for why he could not make it to the dinner table.

He hadn't noticed the improvements she had made to the house: the tapestries imported from Dol Amroth, the fresh linen from Eriador, the better trained kitchen staff. He never mentioned the books she had added to their library, all for his sake, or the herbs she had planted in their garden.

And the few times she asked him where he was going, why he could not stay, he would simply answer, "_Éowyn_"

That was all. In that quiet, preoccupied tone of condescension. "_Éowyn_"

Just the way Aragorn had spoken to her before he had left for the Paths of the Dead. Just the way her Uncle had spoken to her before leaving her at Dunharrow. Like they couldn't be bothered with her, and she had no part of their travails.

It hadn't always been like this. Faramir had once been attentive and kind. Sometimes he still was, and in those brief and fleeting moments, Éowyn allowed herself to believe that everything was fine. It wasn't her; it wasn't him. He had been busy for a while, but nothing was missing.

But then he would ride away to chase after orcs or to construct a castle or negotiate a treaty. She would stay behind, as she always did, because if she asked to go he would look at her and say, "_Éowyn_"

Inside the room the laughter quieted, and Éowyn took a deep breath. She stepped inside, preparing herself for Faramir's disappointment. She was pleasantly surprised. Faramir looked up upon her entrance, and promptly set down their son and came to her. He embraced her without hesitation, kissing her gently on the forehead and the lips. She leaned into his touch, dreading the moment he would release her. But he did not. He did move away, but held her hand.

"How was your journey?"

"It was well," she replied without elaborating. She did not mention what had brought her back to the city so suddenly.

"I did not expect you for another few weeks," he said.

Éowyn swallowed. Then perhaps he was disappointed after all. Perhaps he would have preferred that she stay away. _No, he is happy to see me._

"I wanted to see you," she told him, and was delighted by the light that leapt into her husband's eyes. "I missed you."

"I missed you as well," he answered, but with some reserve. His eyes were searching hers. "Was that all that brought you hither?" he asked. "Only the desire to see me?"

_He knows..._ It should have hurt her that he was not satisfied with her explanation. It should have hurt her that he suspected her, but she somehow found herself pleased with his paranoia. Perhaps she even wanted to inflict a little more pain, just to see that he still cared.

But looking at him standing there, so unguarded, with their son hugging his leg and his face so vulnerable, she just couldn't go on with the charade.

"Yes, just the desire to see you," she smiled, moving to kiss him again. But he pulled away suddenly. His hand released hers, and her gaze moved to those ink-stained fingers. She noticed a few cuts from where he must have cut himself with his pen knife when he sharpened his quill by candlelight long after sunset, when it was too dark to see what he was doing.

In the early days of their marriage, she often had awoken to find ink on her shoulder from where Faramir had touched her with his hands while checking on her before returning to work. The ink from his calloused fingers would smear onto her gown. Perhaps that was why he had stopped coming. It hadn't happened in many years.

"I have something to tell you about your...friend," he said softly.

Éowyn swallowed. "I told you once before. He is not my friend." Then she paled, realizing her mistake. If she had returned just to see Faramir, she wouldn't have known about the Haradir. She wouldn't have automatically thought of _him_ when Faramir mentioned her "friend."

Faramir brushed his hand over his brow, as if frustrated, but Éowyn knew not if he was angrier with her or himself. "Of course," was all he said, then sat down at his desk again. He gave his son a playful swat, but his good humor had faded.

"Elboron, go with your mother. I have more work to finish."

Éowyn held her hand out to her son, who took it dutifully. His large baby eyes were dark and serious, comprehending that something was wrong. She shooed him away, and he went to his nurse standing just outside the door. Dismissed, unwanted because mother was busy. Unwanted, but not unloved. She understood that well. Her son, poor boy, she almost followed him to the door to embrace him once more; and yet mother was busy.

She returned her attention to her husband.

"Faramir, you had something to tell me?" she asked, failing to keep her voice perfectly steady. She was almost begging him to maintain the connection they had shared earlier.

He looked up at her while opening one of his accounting books. "It can wait."

She stared at him, unable to think of what to say to make him set down his work once more. Perhaps she should not have interrupted him. Perhaps she should have played innocent. Perhaps she should have done many things she had not and not done things she had...

Faramir was bent over his work again. He had picked up his quill, shaven down almost to the end. He would have to sharpen a new one soon... It wasn't moving. He wasn't even fiddling with it between his thumb and forefinger as he did when he was reading.

It occurred to her that he cared: that he was still thinking of the rumors, and that they _did_ bother him, and that he still loved her so tremendously, but perhaps he was afraid that she would confess everything and ridicule him.

But there was nothing to confess. Not really. And he _must_ know it, for she could not bear to cause him pain. She would tell him the truth.

"Faramir...nothing..." she stopped, unable to allow the words to leave her mouth. How could she begin without sounding as if she were lying? She stammered for a moment more until she saw her husband begin to fiddle with his pen. He turned one of the pages of his books and crossed something out. Then something else. He flexed the taught muscles of his hand and scratched his beard as he always did when concentrating.

He wasn't listening. ...Or maybe he didn't want to hear? Could that be it? Was he trying to avoid a scene?

Éowyn felt so close to being able to tell him what she needed. So many times she had tried to tell him. She hinted at her unhappiness at every moment; and yet he never knew. Once he had been so good at understanding her; he had seen into her very soul, and she loved him for it. Now he hardly seemed to care.

But he did love her (does love her) and that was enough. She was sure that he was angry over the Haradrim, and that was her twisted consolation. Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether he was angry or not, but certainly he must care about the rumors. What husband wouldn't? And she could tell him so long as he loved her and she was certain he wouldn't shake his head and say, "_Éowyn__, come out of the darkness. I cannot do what you ask of me._"

But he wouldn't say that if he loved her. So she opened her mouth to speak. Some sound left her throat. Not a word, but a stammer; yet it was a beginning. And then...

"I missed that," said her husband. "What?"

Éowyn trembled at his question. It was the end.

"...Nothing."


	3. The Haradrim 3

Tertius

They called him The Haradrim. Haradir. Southron. Scum.

More accurately, his name was Castos, son of Lord Castamir of South Ithilien; and he was Castamir's oldest son, although he was not Castamir's heir. This last fact was essential to understanding his character. In fact, he had been a stranger to his father ever since his humble birth in a Haradic whore's cabin.

Perhaps he himself would never have known his father's identity but for his remarkable resemblance to the great marcher magnate of the South. He had his piercing eyes, aquiline nose and strong chin exactly, his height and build as well. All that was lacking was similar birth. Castamir could trace his lineage _on both sides_ back through twenty generations of legitimate, Numenorian lords. In ancient days, Castamir's ancestors had been lesser advisors of the kings. In later years, they had achieved and maintained great prominence in Southern Gondor. They had escaped the troubles with Sauron by retreating to Osgiliath, and then to Minas Tirith, but all the while they managed to preserve the family fortune. Most recently, Castamir had pledged fealty to the King and to the Steward in exchange for their renewal of his ancestral claims in the south, then relocated his entire household. In all of Ithilien, only Prince Faramir was greater.

Castos, by the cruel lottery of birth, had been raised destitute, had learned his father's identity at the age of seven, and spent the remainder of his life searching for his father's acknowledgement, which had thus far not been forthcoming. As he knelt upon the stiff hay lining the slats of the scaffold, he thought about how it was unlikely he would ever receive his father's approval now.

It didn't matter. He had earned the favor of one person in his entire life, and she had given him everything. She had given him a position in her stables, had acquired for him a rank in the White Company, then a small piece of land for himself and all the heirs of his body.

"_My heirs? I shall never have them, my lady...and it is because..." _

He remembered the feel of her finger pressing over his lips. And a desperate, whispered, _"Please don't."_

That was the only time she had ever touched him. It hadn't been nearly enough. Nor was the land she had bestowed on him nearly enough. It was a plot for a yeoman farmer, not for the son of a nobleman. It was a plot for a beneficiary of a Princess, but not for a favorite.

He had tried to move up in the ranks. The Prince had given Lord Beregond the whole of Cair Andros for his loyalty. And to Mablung he had gifted an estate large enough for a city. But he, the son of Castamir the Bold? Nothing.

Not an inch more land. Not one higher rank. No favors, no handkerchiefs, nor loving gazes exchanged in crowded halls when no one was looking. No gentle caresses in the shadows or frenzied lovemaking behind closed doors.

For the amber tint of his flesh he was distrusted: a shade just dark enough that it could not be mistaken for a soldier's tan. And in his soldier's garb he had been dressed too poorly to be mistaken for a nobleman, and too richly to pass for a decent, hardworking laborer.

Once he had tried to go to the lower circles of Minas Tirith, and they had eyed him warily. Him in his fine clothes with his steel sword polished like the finest silver hanging by his side. They had thought he was there to spy on their revels.

Usually he went to the taverns in the upper circles, where the Prince's guardsmen go. But there the women stared at his amber flesh and made sport of him with their conspiring, female eyes.

Always, _almost_ close enough to pass, but never close enough. If he had been born a nothing, he might have turned out a good man.

Perhaps he could yet be saved. The White Lady was the only woman in his life to look on him without judgment. She had offered him his position in the guard. She had given him his land. He was sorry to have betrayed her trust...he hadn't meant it. Not really, but he had been so angry. And just to feel that neck between his hands...

She understood the loneliness of being unwanted. Now she had come to grant him one more kindness. Whether it were from love or pity or empathy he cared not so long as he could escape from dying disgraced upon his knees.

Even when they pushed his neck down onto the rough wood block, he tilted his neck so he could see her. His eyes nearly rolled back into his head in an attempt to find her again. He raised himself up a little, only to be met with curses and to have his head shoved roughly down again.

"Accept your fate and die like a man," advised the executioner.

Castos could no longer see her, so he imagined her. He spat upon the block beneath him. "I spit on your Fate," said he, seeing only the gold of her hair and the steady rise and fall of her bosom. "It was not of my creation."


	4. The Haradrim 4

Ultimus

"_Nothing..._"

Faramir stifled the urge to sigh. He wondered what his wife had been about to say, and whether it was worth the trouble to pry it from her. The discussion no doubt would be a long one, and there was so much to be done today. Reports, finances, inspections, letters. It was all never ending.

He crossed out a row of figures in the book before him, wondering how he could have wasted so much money on construction material. The stone mason was swindling him. Things were so much easier when they dealt with Master Gimli.

In pondering the situation, he almost forgot his wife, still standing before him. Their son was gone. He looked up to find her staring down at him without expression. She did that at times, and he didn't know where she went.

He had given up trying to find her. After all, she would tell him if something were bothering her. That was her way. Today, however, something was different. It might have been the impending execution. It was a bad business, and he didn't like doing it, but he had not ordered it. It had been Elessar's court that convicted the man, for it had been Elessar's law he had broken.

A foolish law with a foolish clause. Faramir would not have passed it, and Elessar himself had not liked it. But the council insisted. Faramir suspected it would be repealed in the future, but not for a good while. Not until the council saw it was more trouble than it was worth. He had been the only advisor to oppose it. Well, Elessar was in Fornost now, and nothing could be done.

He did sigh then. Suddenly, he remembered that he was not alone.

Éowyn was still in the room. Faramir didn't mind. He never minded; but he was surprised. She usually was more than happy to leave him to his work, and often it seemed he never saw her when he was home.

_Ah, that must be it. I am working too much._

He set down his quill and rubbed his eyes with his left hand so as not to smear ink over his forehead. Éowyn never seemed angry that he worked too much. Once in a while she might say something, and he would explain his reasons, but in general she would not argue. Even so, he knew that everyone had limits to their patience.

His father had always disapproved of his work habits. When Faramir had been a boy, he would curl up in the library with an old tome and not appear again until evening. He neglected his sword lessons so he could study. He forgot to take meals. Many people found fault with Denethor for disapproving of his son's dedication, but Faramir had always known that his habits were irregular. It was possible Denethor had a right to be angry. At times Faramir had honestly loved his books more than his own family. And Denethor knew it.

Mithrandir alone had understood. It was part of the reason Denethor had so resented the wizard.

Faramir was grateful that Éowyn did not resent him for his ways. Like Mithrandir, Éowyn understood him also. She never asked to go with him on missions: she knew now that he would feel better knowing someone was at home to take care of their affairs. And she never demanded that he put her first because she knew how much was to be done. How helpful she was to him: putting their household in order, caring for the servants, settling disputes during his frequent absences.

It was a lonely life, and yet this suited her. He was certain of it. She was a strong woman, independent, and he would not wish to crush her under his lordship. Instead, he had given her plenty of room to maneuver and wield her power as the Princess of their realm; and he trusted her to make the right decisions. No other wife could have suited him so well.

Except...the way Éowyn was looking at him now was so strange. Not emotionless...no not hardly...but familiar somehow. Faramir felt his breath catch when he placed it.

This was the way she had looked on him in the first days in the Houses of Healing, when she had been so full of despair and fear that she would have welcomed death. This was much more serious than concern for his well-being.

How? Why? She had said '_nothing._' "Nothing" was wrong.

"What has happened?" he asked. "What can have made you look so dreadfully upon me?"

Her cheeks flushed red, as if with fever, and she lifted a hand to her eyes. Pacing from one place on the floor to another, she fretting with her hands, lacing them in her hair, then lowering them to clutch at the folds of her skirt. Frenzied. Her question came out in a rush. "Do you not know?"

Faramir's quick mind flashed back and forth through every single possibility, through every single instance he had heard or seen, and he remembered some rumor flitting back to him almost a year ago. _Your wife and your guardsman..._ He had discarded it as gossip, for he knew Éowyn well, and she would never be unfaithful.

But he did know that she had been fond of Castos, and it must be his death that now upset her. But she hadn't wanted to speak of him.

"Is it the guardsman?" he asked anyway.

"NO!" she burst, startling them both with the violence of her protest. Faramir stared back into her frightened eyes, and began to wonder if the rumors were true. But that was foolish. Éowyn would never be unfaithful to him.

"It is not him," she said, and it came out in a flood of words. "I promise you it is not. Nothing has ever happened between us."

Faramir waited patiently for her to say what she would say. She was a plain speaker, and she would tell him soon enough.

"Do you not believe me?" she whispered.

"Of course I believe you," he replied. But he saw her eyes glimmer with tears and they began to fall.

"You don't. I can see it in your eyes. But please, believe me. Do not be so cold, Faramir. I cannot bear it any longer."

_Cold?_ When had he ever been cold?

"Don't explain anything. There is no need," he said, standing up, coming toward her to embrace her. She let him take her in his arms, and it felt so natural to have her there. He kissed her forehead.

She seized one of his hands and kissed it. Kissed the knuckles, turned it over and kissed the palm. Her tears were falling freely now as she clutched his hand in hers like it was the only thing she had in the world. She pressed her lips over the dark ink stains on his fingers.

Then she stopped, and still holding his hand she seemed to be considering something. She was shuddering as she spoke; there was madness in her eyes. "I can prove it to you."

"But, my love, I believe you. You need never prove anything to me."

She looked up at him, her red eyes searching his. He hoped she did not see the exhaustion he held within: how he had sentenced two men to death in the past month, and how five farmers were squabbling over whose well was whose, and how they had spent too much money building a rampart that had to be torn down and redone, and how the fertility of their cattle needed to be dramatically improved. He hoped that for the moment all she could see was his love for her and its truth.

"Faramir, I can prove it to you...I can prove that I haven't betrayed you. Let me. Please?"

He didn't understand why this was so important to her. He couldn't see at all why she didn't believe he trusted her. He only saw her request laid out before him, without having even heard it; and he felt uncomfortable with her in his arms.

His mouth was dry as he asked, "What is it?"

When the executioner had finished sharpening his axe, Castos caught sight of her again. Had she moved so as to be in his line of sight? Had she managed to come closer?

It mattered not. There she was. Like a goddess, out of nowhere, just as he had met her the first time by the riverbank where he had washed up, thinking his enemies had beaten him at last. Thinking nothing except that he was dead.

He knew he was saved when she raised her arm. Already, she was calling for them to cease the execution. She must have spoken to her husband, or perhaps she had sent a messenger to the King, asking for clemency.

Castos didn't have time to ponder what she meant when her arm lowered. Instead, he felt a sharp pain.

And of him, there is no more to write.


	5. Untitled 1 of 1

Disclaimer: I don't own this

Author's Notes: This is a new story, separate from "The Haradrim." It is an AU story based on the challenge seen below.

* * *

For Nimloth, who wanted someone to answer her request…I sort of answered it. 

The challenge:

Aragorn has married Eowyn. One night, she breaks down and confesses that she's madly in love with the Steward...

1) Eowyn is a very proud woman, so it must be under tremendous pressure from her conscience/Faramir/other that she caves in and confesses.

2) Either this should take place on their wedding night before the consummation or say a year into their marriage. If a year later, the confession might take place after some sex, but for dramatic purposes only.

3) Rating: depends on whether you could use the sex to further the plot. No gratituous sex please! Say either PG-13 for suggestiveness, or R for more explicit stuff.

4) Word-count. The whole story should take place on one evening--unless at the last resort you have to make it longer to come up with a solution. Aragorn must, in this one evening, decide on a satisfactory solution. So--short word count.

5) Eowyn would be called 'The Queen Elfsheen'.

6) Though she loves Faramir, she should NOT (repeat NOT) have slept with him, due to their sense of honour. Yet. Perhaps they are having trouble and Eowyn could hint that they wont' be able to hold on much longer.

7) Story should be told from Aragorn's POV.

The plot should focus on Eowyn having gained honour by her marriage, but now coming close to losing it through an affair with the Steward. She suddenly realises that if she had foregone her dreams of honour she would have found happiness and true honour. That should come out subtlely in her conversation with Aragorn. Try to convey the idea that Eowyn is trying to lay bare her heart before she freezes over forever. And don't make Aragorn unfeeling or nasty to her: he deeply pities her, and this catastrophe is coming just when he's learning to love her.

9) Finally don't make Aragorn's solution a stupid or cruel one like leaving things the way they are. THIS IS THIS RELATIONSHIP'S LAST CHANCE TO END HAPPILY. WHether it does or not is up to you.

10) Come up with the wisest and most Tolkien-like solution possible. Think very carefully about it.

Untitled

by Jenni

A Gondorian Schoolboy's Song:

Elessar Elendil's heir

Took to wife a lady fair,

With lips like reddest rose's hue

And eyes of deepest azure blue.

He sent her chests of ebony

Filled with pearls from the sea,

He locked her in an ivory tower;

Where golden chains adorned her bower.

And I walked by to hear her shout,

"I cannot get out, get out!"

"No, I cannot get out, get out!"

Aragorn did not like the winter.

He hadn't liked it when he was a ranger and he'd had to shiver outside under a tree or, if was lucky, under a ledge somewhere. He didn't like it now when he was king and he was covered in fine furs and standing over a roaring fire, rubbing his hands together so hard that the skin was beginning to feel raw.

Nor did he like it that there was only one room small enough in the whole palace to retain a comfortable level of heat, and he did not like that he had to share this room with his wife, who was not speaking to him and had not, in fact, spoken to him for the past two days. "Tar-Elfsheen" they called her for her hair and for her fame with the sword. They called her other things too that were less flattering…

Currently, his wife was reclining by the window on one of the wooden chairs, absolutely decked in gorgeous furs that he had purchased from the dwarves especially for her. She had the giant hood pulled tightly around the neck, so that he could barely see her face since the animal hair obscured most of it. If she would let him look, he knew her beauty would overcome him, but for now she looked sullen and unhappy. He snuck a peak at her once in a while, to see whether or not she had moved. She had not.

Her bare hand rested on the stone window sill just brushing the glass, and it must be freezing. It was bitter cold outside. Aragorn had heated up a cup of spiced wine and then left it on a table in his chambers. When he had returned for it a few minutes later, the condensation on the sides had turned to ice.

Éowyn did not seem to be bothered, however. She merely leaned on her other hand, the one farthest from the window, and continued to stare off into the darkness outside. It seemed that the chill between him and his wife might actually rival the chill outside.

Aragorn kept rubbing his hands together for lack of anything better to do. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep his temper.

But when he looked at her a few minutes later and she was still in the exact same position, he felt unable to play her game any longer.

"Does it not disturb you to hear what is said about you?"

At first she showed no sign that she had heard a word he had spoken, but when he turned fully from the fire, she slowly raised her head and looked at him. Aragorn saw immediately that there were tear tracks on her cheeks, and her eyes were still shimmering with all the tears to come.

"I know of nothing ill said about me that is not a lie," she answered. "And so, no. It does not disturb me." She turned back to the window sill and did not attempt to engage in further conversation.

With a sigh, Aragorn turned back to the fire. But he did not cease from speaking. "When we were married, you were so full of life and happiness, but I often wonder now if you have not fallen again into shadow."

"I admit," she said, "that I am not as content as I once was in my life here, but that is not your fault. Therefore, do not let it trouble you, my husband."

But Aragorn did not listen to her, because for the first time in several days he could sense the beginning of a conversation. A real conversation that was not just limited to the minimal pleasantries that were exchanged more often by strangers than by husband and wife. He left the fire and came down to sit by her, slapping his knees as a way of pretending that Éowyn was not crying. She seemed surprised at his gesture and looked uncomfortable, but he pressed on. "You know, I have heard there is this silly rhyme…"

"I have heard it," she cut him off, hastily wiping at her eyes.

Aragorn nodded, then reached for the handkerchief buried within the folds of his robe so he might hand it to her. She stared at it with a strange reluctance, but after a moment of deliberation, she took it from him and used it to dab her face.

"Would you care for a sleigh ride? I recall that you once found sleighs fascinating. We might go to Ithilien. Prince Faramir has always managed to extract a smile from you…"

"No, please!" she exclaimed, far too quickly.

Aragorn saw she was flustered. She was wringing her hands in the handkerchief, which was a nervous habit of hers he had discovered. It seemed odd to him that she should be nervous at the mention of a sleigh ride, and so it must be the mention of Faramir that was making her nervous. But that didn't make sense either, for she and Faramir had always been good friends.

"He is getting married soon," Éowyn reminded him. "I don't wish to interfere with his preparations."

Aragorn nodded, but his pleasure in the conversation had diminished. He sensed there was much more to what his wife was saying, and he sensed that he did not want to know what it was.

But he wanted her to explain herself. She should say something or give a better excuse than "He's getting married," because Faramir was not the sort of man who would care about his friends dropping in for a visit. And even if he did mind, he would have set aside everything in order to make way for his lord and king.

Aragorn waited for her to elaborate, but she did not. Éowyn said nothing at all, because she didn't want him to know the reason she did not want to visit Faramir before he was married.

Just as Arwen had said nothing when she hadn't wanted him to know she was leaving for the Havens: she hadn't wanted to hurt him.

"Éowyn?" he leaned forward to touch her face. "It is you I love."

She flinched at his unexpected touch, and he felt his heart constrict. He was only grateful that she did not pull away. "What can I do?" he asked. "I will do anything."

Éowyn raised her head, allowing her tears to fall freely down her face. "Turn back time, Aragorn," she said. "I love him… I cannot bear it any longer. Oh, if you can, then turn back time so I can change it all."

Aragorn withdrew his hand as if he she had spat upon it, but found that at this moment he was incapable of anger. He was certain anger would come later, but for now it was merely shock.

"Do I mean nothing to you, then?" he asked. "Nay, do not answer. I dread what I may hear."

"Aragorn," said she, "you I loved as a woman to her idol, or as a soldier loves his king. But I find now that riches...all this wealth that I once desired...I desire it no longer."

Aragorn found that he was shaking. All those times he had watched her and Faramir, smiling at their mirth, she had loved the Steward instead of him. During all their kisses she had been thinking of Faramir. And when he had held her at night, so grateful that he had set aside the memory of Arwen, Éowyn had been in love with Faramir. Anger wasn't a word strong enough for what he would finally feel after going over every single second of his blissful married life and reassessing to incorporate the new, and unbearably painful realization that Éowyn had spent those exact same seconds being in love with another man.

But all that Aragorn could say in reply to her request was, "I regret that what you ask of me is impossible."

"I know it," she said. She was weeping now, covering her face and her shame and releasing all the pain of what must have been months and weeks and days of loving another man into this one moment of abject misery. He couldn't hate her for her misery.

He remembered the feeling well, and sometimes he still felt it when he thought of Arwen. But whether the agony would diminish from this hour or whether it would consume her, who was he to say?

"Can you not learn to love someone else since you cannot have him?" he asked, even as he knew this was not the time to ask. "…I did."

But Éowyn could not answer through her sobs, or if she did he did not hear her. And as calmly as he had taken the news, Aragorn felt unable to be near Éowyn at this moment. Knowing...

Perhaps she hadn't been able to help herself. Perhaps she hadn't been able to prevent herself from meeting the Steward in secret or holding his hand just a little too long whenever he kissed it in public or kissing him with all the passion she ought to have reserved for her husband, who loved her, or doing any of the other things that secret lovers did.

But Faramir had been able to help himself, for Faramir had gotten betrothed.

What was he supposed to do as a husband and as a king? For now, he could do nothing but leave the room. "I can stay here no longer," he said. "I will leave you now to your grief."

When he began to walk away, his wife caught his hand and kissed the seal of office upon it as if she were begging for her life.

"Forgive me…" she cried. "I have been faithful to you. I swear now that I will always be faithful."

Aragorn gently freed his hand from her grasp and bent low to kiss her beloved head. "Do not make promises you cannot keep," said he. And he left her alone to ponder his meaning, but as he departed, he felt the warmth seep from his body.

Theirs would be a frigid existence forevermore, for he would be like Aldarion the mariner, ever faithful to a woman who refused his bed. Yet his honour would not allow her to go to Faramir.


End file.
